(a leaf) falls
by radialarch
Summary: A building collapses, with John inside. / Hurt/comfort, gen. One-shot.


**Title**: (a leaf) falls  
**Pairing**: Sherlock & John friendship  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: description of injuries  
**Spoilers**: written pre-S3  
**Wordcount**: 1223  
**Summary**: A building collapses, with John inside.

**A/N**: Written for agent_era for the 2013 winter Holmestice.

* * *

"There's no-one here, Sherlock." John says, looking around the warehouse. "Are you sure—"

"It _has_ to be," Sherlock snaps. "This is exactly where the message led." He paces furiously, glancing up at the high and dusty windows. "John, check behind those boxes," he suddenly whirls, "see if you can find any sign of the smugglers."

John watches the tail of Sherlock's coat swish around a box and sets out for the back of the building. The air is dusty and stale; despite Sherlock's insistence, John doubts anyone's been here for a long time.

Then something new and shiny catches his eye. Low on the wall, a mass of wires and a single blinking light —

"_Sherlock_," he shouts, at the same time he sees Sherlock spring up, a dark silhouette against the door.

"It's a trap, John, get out, _get out_—"

John drops to the ground. The world around him explodes.

* * *

John comes back to consciousness swathed in darkness, with his right side on fire. His throat feels raw but he can't hear himself screaming. "Sherlock?" He tries to gasp out, but he can't hear that either; it's like his ears are full of cotton and no amount of shaking his head will dislodge it.

He blinks tears out of his eyes and reaches down for his mobile, stopping every time the pain drives the air out of his lungs. By the time he gets the screen to light up, his hand is shaking so badly he can hardly hold it.

Even in the weak light John can see the broken end of a bone pressing up against his skin. "Fuck," he hisses, which sends another wave of pain across his torso. Possibly multiple rib fractures, then. There's a concerning amount of blood splashed on the floor but at least most of it's sticky and clumped — lucky he didn't bleed out while unconscious, really.

Raising his head up makes John want to vomit, but he clenches his jaws shut and rides it out until he can look around. Right above his head, raining dust into his eyelashes, is a concrete slab; it makes John's breath catch, that only a few boxes saved him from being entirely crushed.

"Christ," he says, trying to lie back down without jarring anything. He looks up into the hazy darkness and wonders if he's going to die here.

* * *

His hearing comes back bit by bit, the sound of his breathing shallow and loud in his ear. It only slowly dawns on him that the ringing noise he's listening to isn't just in his head.

_22 missed calls_, his phone says. _Incoming...Sherlock_.

"John," Sherlock says, knife-sharp, as soon as John picks up. "Describe your condition."

"Hello to you too," John says, slightly muzzy. "Did you get out okay?"

"Superficial injuries, I was near the door," he snaps impatiently. "Your injuries. A description, now."

"Fractured right arm, closed but compound." John blinks, trying to remember. "Probably several broken ribs on the right side. Not sure about internal injuries, but I've mostly stopped bleeding externally, at least. It's pretty difficult to examine my legs — the space is very cramped — but I can feel my toes, at least."

"I see," Sherlock says, and for a moment the only thing John hears is the sound of Sherlock breathing. "Right," he says after that, more crisply. "They're working to get you out, but we don't have your location and the structure's proving difficult to sift through. Can you describe anything — where you were when the explosion happened, what you see now — any details that might help."

"I—" John tries to sit up slightly, gasps when fresh wave of pain overwhelms him.

"John?" Sherlock says immediately, voice dipping into concern. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," he bites out. "Just. Give me a minute." The world is narrowed to his arm and the process of breathing — in, out, in, out — and it seems to take a very long time before he can concentrate at all on his surroundings.

"I was near the back wall," he says when he can manage. "Almost directly across from the door, not by the corners. I had my back to you when I saw the explosive to my right. There are a lot of boxes here. Um...above my head there's concrete — I think it's concrete. I'm pretty sure it's being held up by the boxes, so tell them to be careful, yeah?"

Sherlock lets out a snort, and John feels a stab of pity for whoever's out working to save him. "Don't hang up," Sherlock says abruptly, before there's just muffled shouting coming out of the earpiece.

John laughs weakly at the thought of Sherlock terrorizing everyone around him, because it's easier, because at least he's not just lying here with his arm throbbing and fear pressing down upon him like a physical thing. He keeps laughing long after it stops being funny and his ribs aching sharply, after Sherlock comes back and tells him to stop with a snap in his voice.

"Sorry," John says, when he's scared even himself. "Shock, probably."

"Don't do anything," Sherlock orders. "We've narrowed down your position, but the slab you mentioned is going to prove difficult, so it may take a while. Do not go to sleep and move as little as possible — we _will_ get you out."

"Sleep would be nice," John says thoughtfully.

"Oh come on, John," Sherlock says, exasperation seeping into his tone. "You're a doctor, you should know better."

"You know, your bedside manner is terrible," John says, and bursts into laughter again.

* * *

Sherlock talks. He goes over what he knows about the smugglers and where they might be now; he talks about them with his voice darkening until John has to break in with a warning, and even then he remains snappish long afterward. He talks about the EMTs, breaks down their body language into frankly unbelievable detail. He describes passersby and their inner lives, and maybe he's making everything up, maybe there's no-one there at all, but Sherlock keeps talking and John clings to that; it's the only thing he has.

Then there's a faint beeping in his ear. John pulls the phone away to see a flashing _Low battery_ message.

"Sherlock," John says. "My mobile's dying."

"Ah," he says, voice raspy. "That's...unfortunate."

"It's fine." John's clutching the phone much harder than necessary. "I mean, I'm going to be out of here soon, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock says, but without much conviction.

"Good," John says. "Okay."

There's a frantic beeping before the call cuts off. John sighs. Clenches his left hand.

Waits.

* * *

John doesn't know how much time has passed, but he finally hears the whirr of machinery, and with a screechy, grinding noise the slab is being lifted up, showering him in dirt. He's never been so happy to see the sky in his life.

He hears Sherlock as the paramedics are strapping him to a gurney. "John!" he says, shouldering his way through with brusque efficiency.

"Good to see you too." John gives him a weak grin.

"You—_don't_ do that again," Sherlock says with roughened voice, touching John's face with hands that are frantic yet delicate. "It was intolerable."

"I'm alive, Sherlock," John says, tasting his words with some wonder. Sherlock lets out a choked laugh and John breathes, keeps on breathing.


End file.
